Papa
by Mountain Bluebird
Summary: Based on movie & play, with prePTO from book. A year after Christine's decision, everyone's favorite ghost finds a little Spanish orphan by the river. He raises her, and she helps him like life againfor as long as it lasts. EM and brief EC. ALL DONE!
1. A Long Walk

**A/N: Well, this is my first multi-chapter Phic. R&R, as if you didn't know.**

_**Papa**_

_**A Long Walk**_

It was a year to the day since Christine had left the opera with Raoul. A year is a very long time for a wound to pain your heart without killing you, but somehow I was still alive. I hated it, but I couldn't bring myself to say the three words I had learned that would painlessly end my life. So I was still the amiable old PTO, though it wasn't fun as it had been before. Carlotta had left after the death of Signior Piangi, who had been her husband: she had had enough. Nobody was sorry to see her go, except Messieurs Andre and Firmin, who had the time of their lives trying to replace her. At first, I had nothing against the girl they chose, an Italian teen named Giulietta with a voice for opera better than Christine's, though I hated to admit it. But as I watched her more closely after she got the job, I discovered that she had no brains at all. She could almost remember how to say her lines and sing her songs, but nothing more. I didn't like Piangi's replacement, either. He was big and Spanish, and thought he was better than everyone, which he wasn't. He was exactly like Piangi, really.

When I wasn't beating new recruits into submission, I was thinking about Christine. Today more than usual. What had she left me for? Love? A vincomte? A pretty face? That one hurt me most. A pretty face. Why was I born ugly, but gifted with mental power that few could rival? Mozart was the only one that came to mind, and he had not been beautiful, either. At least he was not deformed. Maybe it was proof that God existed: the more gifted your mind was, the less gifted your form was, and vice-versa. But I had never really believed in God. It was just too bizarre.

Often I would go on night strolls through Paris as I thought. I would go to the streets near the river and follow them to the outskirts of the city. Those streets were dark, narrow, and somewhat disreputable. I would stare at the river and skip stones. I would wish that Christine was there with me, and that Raoul was dead. Why hadn't I killed him? I had held his life between two fingers: why had I given it back after he stole the one thing that was precious to me? Tears would come to my eyes, and I would stare at the sky and call her name.

_Christine…_

_Christine…_

"Why are you crying, monsieur?" a small voice asked. I jumped and looked down. A tiny, dark girl with bloodshot eyes and a tearstained face was looking up at me.

"Because…I have lost…

"Your Christine?" she said helpfully.

I turned back to the river. "Yes. I've lost my Christine."

"Would you like me to help you find it?"

That absurdity took a moment to register. I smiled a little. "No, little girl." I looked back down at her. "Why were you crying?"

She bit her fingers. "Uncle's house burned down, and I ran away after Papa threw me out the window. And now I'm lost, I'm hungry, my parents d—died, and my ankle got hurt when I fell. Please help me, Monsieur." Her enormous brown eyes were like those of a lost fawn.

I blinked. Could I take her? She could occupy my thoughts, and maybe I could be happy again. "Is your father dead?" I asked her. She nodded. "What is your name?"

"Adelita."

I paused. What a pretty Spanish name, Adelita. How could I leave her there? Then I would truly be a beast. "Would you like to stay with me?"

She looked me over. "I think so." I picked her up. She put her arms around my neck. She couldn't have been more than three or four—she was very light. I carried her to the deserted bakery where the entrance to the labyrinth was.

"You live here?" she asked when we got to the bakery.

"No. I can't carry you down the ladder, but I'll catch you." I went down the ladder, and she followed carefully, given her twisted ankle. She jumped, and I caught her. How she trusted me. It was almost frightening. Christine was the only one who had trusted me, and she had regretted it. I hoped Adelita wouldn't. She was shivering.

"I'm afraid of the dark," she whimpered.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," I told her. "Listen to it."

She held perfectly still as I carried her to the dock. "What should I hear?" she asked.

"The music of the night." I started humming the song I had written for Christine. We got in the boat and I poled it across the lake. I examined her more closely. She would be almost level with the keyboard of an organ. She wore a pale blue silk dress, stained with soot. Her skin was dark, like a Spanish Moor's, and her hair was jet black and curly. Her brown eyes were wide set and staring, reflecting every candle on the lake. She seemed to be afraid of something else. She looked around and crouched low in the boat.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The candles," she almost sobbed. "They frighten me."

I was puzzled, but then I remembered that her parents had just died in a fire. I picked one up. "Watch this." I dangled a bit of blanket in it, then put my hand in it. The candles were lit by magic, and didn't burn. Adelita reached out and touched the flame.

"It's cold. How funny." I threw it back in the lake and it bobbed itself right way up after landing flame down. She laughed and sat back up.

We arrived at the island I lived on. We got out of the boat. "While you're here, I don't want you to leave the island without me," I told her. "The lake is big, and you will get lost." She nodded sleepily. "Are you tired, Adelita?" Another nod. I tied up the boat. "You can sleep in the boat." She curled up in it and shut her eyes. I remembered that she had twisted her ankle. She didn't notice as I bound it, tipping the boat. I tentatively stroked her hair. What had possessed me? Was this feeling love? It must be, but a sort that I had never felt before. Dreamily I went to my desk and began to work on my opera. My mind kept wandering at first, but as it grew later I lost myself in my music as usual.

A small voice interrupted me after a very long time. It badly, haltingly read the poem I had written yesterday with no conscious thought, breaking my heart into more tiny pieces with every word.

_I taught you everything I knew,_

_I showed you how to find what lay behind the mask,_

_All I asked of you was love._

_You were my light in the darkness,_

_You were the star that helped me to find my way._

_What did you leave me for, Christine?_

"Ker-ees-tee-nay," she said.

"Christine," I corrected dully.

"Oh. This is a poem about your Christine, then?"

"Yes, Adelita."

"What is a Christine, anyway?"

I didn't want to tell her. That was a very private matter. But she did ask directly, and I would have to tell her someday. "Christine was a girl. I loved her. I loved her more than I've ever loved anything."

Adelita put the poem back on my desk. "What happened?"

"She—she left me, Adelita. She left me for another man."

"All alone in the dark?"

"Yes. All alone in the dark." I slowly wrote a note or two on the song I had been working on. A tear splashed onto it, ruining a measure. A small hand touched my arm.

"Did you sleep?"

"No. Composers don't sleep much."

"You're a composer?"

"Yes. Opera, mostly."

She went back to the boat for a blanket. "Is it always so dark here?"

"Yes."

"Why do you live here, then?"

"Because…people don't like me at all."

"Why not?"

"If you learn the first part of that story, I'll tell you the rest," I said carefully. "But not now. It's not a good story, Adelita. When you're older, if…well, not now." I put my pen down and got up. "Would you like something to eat? I have very little, but enough for us." I got some slightly stale croissants out of my pantry, with a few apples and a pitcher of water. We sat on the ground to eat.

"Are you a magician?" she asked halfway through her apple.

I blinked. "I suppose." I lit my finger on fire with a loud pop. The flame slowly died as I remembered the flames I had flicked at Raoul.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

I touched it. What on earth should I tell her? I couldn't tell her it was a secret—she would pester me about it until I told her. Finally I said, "I've worn it for so long, I feel naked without it." This was true.

I taught her all I could. I taught her to read, to write, to do simple math, to read music, to sing, to play the flute and the piano, to dance. The last was most difficult I had to keep the piano going with magic while I taught her the steps. Often I would lose concentration and the music would stop after hitting a few bad notes. Besides, I didn't know the girls' steps well.

Six months or so later, Adelita found the music box.

**A/N: In the next chapter, there is a music box (obviously) an opera, problems begin to arise, and we have a small, happy family. Stay tuned…**


	2. The Opera

**A/N: OK, maybe this isn't ASAP, but late is better than never, right? R&R**

_**The Opera**_

I was sitting at my desk, composing, much the same as I always did. There was a sad sort of creak, like the noise a neglected door makes. I ignored it. There was the light patter of Adelita's feet after a second creak and a click, then a different click as something was put down. A sound as of gears was heard, and then light, mechanical music.

_Masquerade,_

_Paper faces on parade,_

_Masquerade._

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

It was my music box. The papier-mâché music box, shaped like a barrel-organ, with a Persian monkey on top that played the cymbals—the music box that I had put in _l'oubliette_, the closet of things forgotten, when I had been recalled to life. Why had Adele looked in?

"Adele…" I said, not looking at her or noticing that my pen was leaking.

"Yes?"

"Turn it off. Please."

She did so, then looked up at me. "What's the matter?"

I went over to her and picked up the music box. Why did this little thing hurt me so much? Why had I hidden it? It was just a music box, even if Christine had liked to look at it and wind it up. I put it on my desk and turned it back on. "Nothing, Adele. Nothing. Just memories." I sat back down at my work and set about fixing the ruined measures. She took out a book. She loved reading. I had never been so attached to books myself, but whenever she wasn't being schooled by me, she was curled up in the boat or my bed, reading. We both needed a holiday, and, besides, there was something I had to do. "Adele, how would you like to go to an opera?"

Her face lit up. I never took her out, except to go on walks through Paris—I always left her sleeping to go to see that my orders were obeyed. "Oh, I should like to very much."

"We'll have to leave in an hour."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of having to wait an hour. That, to me, was strange. How did she understand the concept of an hour? Time really had no meaning when there were no stars, sun, or moon to mark its passing. The only timepiece down here was an ancient grandfather clock that I kept in a closet and rarely looked at. Right now, it was six-thirty in the evening, July twenty-seventh, 1883—whatever that meant.

At the end of the nonexistent hour, we were ready. I was in my typical opera-attending garb, Adele had insisted upon wearing her hat. I had my ten francs to give Mme. Giry (I was feeling generous) and the key to the door into box five. We got in the boat and went to the bridge. I brought Adelita to the box, listened briefly, then went in. we took our seats just as the opera was beginning. It was a full house tonight, and I felt a twinge of composer's pride that my work was so popular. Adele seemed to not have enough eyes to see all she wanted to see, for her eyes were as far open as they could be, and her pretty, hatted head swiveled back and forth.

"Why doesn't it all fall down, like London bridge?" she whispered, as if afraid that too much noise would bring it crashing down on our heads.

I laughed. "Because I designed it."

She frowned. "You did?"

"Hush."

Adele loved the opera. She laughed at all the funny parts, and cried at all the sad parts, like a good watcher of opera should. There wasn't much of the former, however, this opera being one of mine. Adele didn't understand the concept of a standing ovation, but she gave one anyway. Unfortunately, Meg Giry always looked at box five to see if it was occupied. She saw Adele standing on the seat, then me sitting in the shadows. Her face briefly registered shock, then she looked away.

"Adelita," I called over the tumultuous applause, "we have to go, now."

"Why?" she whined.

"We've been seen." I opened the door to the bridge.

"Why does that mean we have to go back?"

"They don't like it when I go to the opera, but we'll be safe here." I took her quickly across the lake. I had to go see what Meg thought of my daughter, and I couldn't take Adele with me. I told her she should go to sleep. She claimed she wasn't tired. I sang her to sleep, lacing my music with magic. None could resist the magic the gypsies had taught me except the gypsies themselves. I lowered the portcullis and went back across the lake. I climbed the stairs up to the series of passages and rooms over the opera house that I called the Heavens. Two rights, a left, and a long straight passage took me to the room directly over the girls' dressing room. Meg was talking with her mother and a chorus girl named Yvette.

"Yes, Yvette, I know it's odd, but we don't seem to have any satisfactory explanation for it. All we can do is hope he's not brewing something special, and practice our steps." That was the sharp tones of Mme. Giry.

"But, Mama, I think I do have a satisfactory explanation for it," said Meg quietly. I hadn't come a second too late.

"You do?"

"Yes. Tonight he was in his box—"

"Yes, I know, and he left me a very good tip. What of it?"

"Well, there was someone else in the box with him."

A stunned silence.

"Who?"

"A little girl, not more than five years old. I saw them during the curtain call, and he left in a hurry."

Mme. Giry spoke in the way she did when she was thinking. "The Phantom of the Opera has a daughter. I wonder how he came by her."

"Maybe he kidnapped her," Yvette whispered dramatically.

"I doubt it," Mme. Giry contradicted. "It seems unlike him to kidnap."

"Didn't he kidnap Christine?" Yvette persisted.

"That wasn't Christine's story," Meg snapped. "Just tell us what you're thinking, Yvette, would you?"

"Well, if we could somehow get the girl and the Phantom separated—"

"Absolutely not," Mme. Giry interrupted. "You remember what happened to les Messieurs when they tried that." Firmin and Andre were always referred to when they appeared in gossip as "les Messieurs," or, "the old fools."

Yvette seemed mollified, but I knew her. She was not the type to drop an idea without trying it. I stayed to see what she would do—a mistake, I learned quickly.

Yvette left the Giries, and went to the doorway of the men's dressing room. I knew time was running short, but I wanted to see if she could convince the three she had trapped—her beau, a dancer, and a tenor lackey. She convinced them, and in my eagerness to hear, I had forgotten that there was a rather unsecret passageway to the lake nearby, and Yvette knew about it. She also knew the way to the lake, because she had gone with Mme. Giry to find Christine. It took me a moment to understand the creak I heard, and when I did understand it, what little color there was in my face left it. They would get to the lake first. I sprinted back down.

The boat was gone by the time I got to the bridge. I put the candles out and dropped the portcullis around the island. There were screams, and I heard Adele shouting something I couldn't identify.

"Now, come back to the dock." I lit a path of candles that led to the dock. The boat, riding low with four people in it, came back. I was surprised they all fit. I drew my sword as they came onto the dock. "Hold your hand at the level of your eyes," I cautioned them. "Go back. _Now._" One of the men had the impudence to kick the boat away before he ran—I stabbed him in the arm, and he screamed. "It won't kill you, boy. Go!" They ran as if the devil were at their heels, and the devil was seriously considering it. I pulled the boat back.

I finally understood what Adelita was shouting. "Papa! Papa!"

I jumped in the boat and poled back, relighting the candles. She called me Papa! There was a swelling happy feeling in my breast. I lifted the portcullis and got out of the boat. She ran to me and grabbed me around the legs, nearly knocking me into the water.

"Papa," she sobbed, "don't ever leave me here again."

I picked her up. "I promise I won't." It didn't occur to me at the time that I would never keep that promise. I sat in my chair with her in my lap. My chin was resting on the top of her head. She slowly fell asleep, and so did I. For the first time in my life, I fell asleep happy.

I had a dream like so many I had. I was somewhere undefined and romantic with Christine, Raoul and the opera completely forgotten. We kissed, and in doing so, Christine slipped her perfect little fingers under my mask and pulled it off. She touched the scars, kissed them. One thing about this dream was unusual, however—the fingers were real.

**Dun, dun, dun! Next chapter involves a story.**


	3. Chapter One

**A/N: OK, everybody, if I don't get gratitude for this, I will be angry. I am risking a lot to bring this chapter to you. Flames are OK, but only flames that I can use.**

_**Chapter One**_

My eyes shot open. Adelita was awake, and staring curiously at my face—my unmasked face.

But she didn't look afraid or repulsed at all.

"Adelita..." I whispered, just as I had Christine's name two years ago. She gave the mask back and I put it on.

"What happened?"

"A story, Adele? I think I promised you one the day you came."

She curled up in a tiny ball. "All right. A story."

I shut my eyes as I had learned to do at the gypsy camp. "Once upon a time, for that is how all good stories begin, there was born a boy to a noblewoman in Marseilles. He had a terrible infection of the skin which made the right half of his face terrible to look upon. His mother loathed him, but did not have the cruelty to abandon him. She kept him in the house, but out of her sight as much as was possible. Whenever he came into her sight, she would throw him his mask and send him away. The boy had no name, for his mother had given none to him. As the boy grew older, he learned to get up after the house was asleep and steal into the library. He taught himself to read and write, and read all the books in the house. He learned many things. He learned to design, to compose, speak many languages, and a wealth of other skills useful to a man, but above all else, he learned that there was happiness in the world. One day, when his mother had been cruel to him, he ran away to a gypsy camp that had been erected near the city. The gypsies were amazed by the boy's intelligence, for he was not quite seven years old. They also saw profit in the boy's deformity, for many people would pay good money to see such a novelty. They gave him a name, a place in their tribe and taught him in their customs and in many skills they professed in. The boy, now Erik, had a talent for ventriloquism, the conjuring of fire, and music. The tent he worked in became the most expensive in the camp.

"When the gypsies moved into Russia, the Shah of Persia sent an emissary to find Erik, for he had heard of his talent in architecture. Erik, now sixteen, agreed readily for the gypsies had taught him to love riches. He designed a maze of mirrors for the Shah, and won favor with the court for his wit. One sultana in particular had taken a liking to Erik, and he accompanied her to Punjab, where she lived. He tutored her in mathematics, physics, music, dance, and other things dark and secret.

"After several years, Erik felt restless. The gypsy life had instilled in him a desire for travel. Erik left the sultana and traveled across Asia and Europe to Paris. When he arrived in Paris, he received news that a new opera house was in the planning. He submitted a design to the manager, and his opera house was built. Secretly, Erik made a labyrinth beneath the opera house and into it and came to live in it. End of chapter one." I opened my eyes. Adele was staring up at me with her thumb in her mouth, something I had never known her to do.

"Can I hear chapter two?"

I sighed. "Not yet."

"Why not?" she pouted.

"It's a very sad chapter, Adele. I don't think you'd like it. Besides, it's time for your lesson."

"Can I do dance first?"

"Fine. The new one. Are you ready?"

She hopped off my lap and got into position as I went over to the piano. "Yes, she said."

"No, you're not. Point your toes." She did, and I began. She was a very good dancer, almost too good for me to give myself credit for teaching. She was tiny, graceful, and flexible, though the first probably wouldn't last. After dance, we worked on singing, which she liked and was good at, then flute, then mathematics. She had a terrible head for numbers, but she was only five.

I believe I have mentioned how time seems not to pass when you live in endless night, but, reader, you must bear with me, for it needs reiteration. One does not go to bed at two in the morning, one goes to bed when one is tired. One does not say, "Today is my twenty-fifth birthday," one says, "I am older." This being so, it was very strange to watch Adele grow up, since it was the first time in—twenty years? fifteen?—that there had been something to show me that time was passing other than the clock I kept hidden in the closet. She grew out of her old dresses, and I bought new ones, stealing into shops at night and leaving money on the counter. She got taller, but never passed five feet—short ballerinas are always best. She stayed very thin, and her hair grew very long and stayed very black. She liked to write songs, though I could rarely and barely sing them. They were almost always arias for sopranos, which I was not. They were quite good, though, when she sang them.

One day when Adelita was maybe fourteen I came back from across the island where I had been repairing my boat. Adele was sitting in my desk chair with my sword across her lap, muttering to herself. As I came closer, I recognized what she was muttering—Mercutio's dying speech in _Romeo and Juliet_.

"Adele," I said smiling, "would you like me to teach you to use that?"

She jumped. "Yes. Just don't kill me in the process. I know all the lines for it if you do, though."

I took a pair of stage epees I had never used out of a dusty closet. "Don't poke me in the eye," I warned her, giving her one. "This is a bit like ballet. It's a delicate art, and it has a rhythm to it. Stand like this, with your feet perpendicular to eachother." I demonstrated and she copied. "Bend your knees more, and point your sword in the general direction of my face, thus. You are in en garde, but you'll need practice. Show me the smallest target possible, your side. To advance upon you opponent, move your front foot first, like this, and don't stop halfway through and advance. Good. Try a retreat. Good. Now to lunge, you straighten your arm first…" **(A/N: I fence. It's fun.)**

Her first lesson was very long. I didn't stop until she made me retreat into the lake. We saluted eachother, laughing, and went swimming.

"You know, Papa," she said, floating on her back, "we're like Prospero and Miranda—from The Tempest, you know. The banished wizard and his daughter who has seen nothing but the tiny island they live on."

"I suppose we are," I agreed absently. I was thinking, as I often was. It was time I sent her to the opera house above us. She was old enough, and she shouldn't be chained to this island forever, with her beauty and talents. Yes, it was time. But the small amount of father in me wanted her to stay. Why shouldn't I send her? Well, she didn't know I was the Phantom. I had done little in that line of work since I had promised her I would stay one the island, but I did enough to be remembered. The new owners, three brothers sponsored by some count or other, had taken a bit of beating to bend to my will, so Adele would not hear good things about the Phantom. She was sure to be able to connect what she heard to me; it did not take a genius, even though she was almost one. But she would hear me out, because she had known nobody but me for nearly ten years.

Now, there was an interesting thought. The only human she knew and could remember was I. What would that do to her? She knew quite well that there were other people in the world, but she might assume that they were all like me. I looked at her. Her thin ballet dress was all but transparent when it was wet, and she didn't seem to notice. That was a frightening idea. She had no sense of modesty, or even privacy, and the Opera Populaire was full of boys who would give anything for a night with anyone as pretty as Adele. And she wouldn't understand that it was not a good thing. I would have to talk to her about that before I let her go. How, I was not sure. But it could wait. Until she was a proficient swords—woman, I would hold my tongue.

**A/N: Next chapter IN PROGRESS. I promise this will never hit R. By the way Shakespeare is the best thing that ever happened to this great lubber, the world, which has prov'd a cockney. And I am absolutely sure that it is "I" because "I" is a predicate nominative, and pronouns used as such are always subject pronouns. **


	4. Audition

**Audition**

Finally I decided her sword skills were good enough. Being short, she had mastered the passada even better than I had, and her reactions were excellent. After she managed to score five touches in a row one class, it was time.

I went over to the boat where she had always slept. She was reading, as usual. "What are you reading?" I asked her.

"Richard III," she said.

One of my favorites. Richard always reminded me of me, even though I knew Shakespeare only wrote him that way to be politically safe. "Would you be interested in acting in the Opera Populaire?"

She looked at me under her lashes. "You mean, sing and dance for all those people? I could?"

"Of course you could. You sing even better than Marinette." Marinette was the prima donna, and one of the best they had had yet—for one thing, she was intelligent.

"So I could?"

"I just said you could."

She smiled and considered. "All right."

I nodded my approval. "But there's one thing you'll need to promise me. You cannot go into any bedroom with a boy."

She frowned, then pursed her lips. "Yes, I promise."

I was intensely relieved I didn't have to explain myself. "You'll need to have a song and a dance to show them. I have a song that I think will work." I went to the oubliette and got out the sheets of music that I had hidden ten years ago. The paper was yellowing and the ink was fading, but it was still readable. It was _Think of Me_. Adele's voice was perfect for it, and maybe Meg would understand. Meg was the dance teacher, now—her mother had moved to Brussels three years ago. I gave the music to Adele, and she looked it over. She sang the complicated bit at the end experimentally.

"I don't really like that," she commented, wrinkling her nose.

"I don't either, but do it anyway. You'll sing it well enough. Are you ready to try the whole thing?" She nodded and took a breath. I listened to her, and I remembered when I had taught Christine this song, but when she had sung it on the stage, she had sung it for Raoul.

Adele stopped short. "Papa, why are you crying?"

"Keep going." She did.

"Now tell me," she said impetuously at the end.

"When you know why the Opera Populaire hates me, I'll tell you. But, now, notes. You went too high on the word 'you'll' here—you sounded like Carlotta."

"Carlotta?"

"A prima donna who drove me insane. And this note here…" An hour later, she sang it better than Christine could have. She could do one of her ballet routines without the music, so I thought that the sooner we left, the better. I glanced at the clock. It was three-twenty-seven p.m., Monday the twenty-first of August, 1891. Perfect timing.

"Adele, could you audition now, do you think?"

"Now? Well, I suppose so."

I put on my melodramatic cape. "Then let's go. I'll bring your things up tomorrow."

"Thank you." She got in the boat and I poled it to the street exit nearest to the opera house. I opened the door and told her, "Go out the door and turn left. You'll see a huge staircase with a huge double door—that's the opera house. Knock with the knocker and tell the doorman that you want to audition. If he tells you that you can't tell him…that the PTO told your father that he will be angry if you aren't let in."

"All right."

Good luck, Adele." I kissed her cheek and started to go back. Suddenly she screamed.

"It's so bright!" she said holding her eyes.

I cursed myself. I hadn't taken her outside in the daylight in ten years. "Cover your eyes with your sleeve until you can open them all the way." Five minutes later she tentatively took her arm away from her eyes and went to the left. I went to the Heavens and into my box to wait. They were rehearsing _Faust_ again. Performance started in a week, and things were just starting to get truly frantic as people realized that they had forgotten important set pieces, props, costumes, etc.

Adele came in almost immediately upon my entrance. Apparently the doorman hadn't given her a hard time, which I was glad of. There was a lengthy talk with the managers, three brothers named Charles, Jacques, and Michel Varins. Finally, Adele was ushered onstage as the conductor signaled for a stop. Adele started to sing. Meg came in, apparently expecting to see rehearsal, and looked quite surprised. She glanced up to my box, then smiled and came up.

"Who is she?" she asked.

"My daughter, Adelita."

"The one Yvette tried to kidnap ten years ago?"

"Yes."

She watched. "You have taught her well."

"Thank you, Meg." Adele finished her song, and Meg applauded. Luckily for me, so many were applauding that nobody noticed two people applauding from box five. Adele curtsied, blushing furiously, and began her dance. Meg looked stunned. "You taught her that?"

"I'm insulted, Meglet," I pouted, using the name I had made up when I had first met her.

She stuck out her tongue. "She's incredible."

"Thank you."

She squeezed my hand. Great, loud bells went off in my head. "It's good to have you back, Erik." I said nothing. She had never, ever, touched me before, not even when she had brought me back my mask. I turned to look at her, but she was gone. Ballet training had made it impossible to hear her come—or go. I looked down at the audience. Adele was still standing on the stage, looking a bit vulnerable with her hands behind her back and switching her weight from foot to foot. The Brothers Varins were huddled with the music director and Meg. How had she gotten there so fast? There were nods, then Charles Varins stepped out. "All right, Mlle. Adelita, you may join our ranks." There were cheers, and she curtsied again, smiling broadly. The Phantom returned.

**A/N: Happy Valentines' Day. The next chapter is Chapter Two, but it won't be up for a while. I think there's going to start being more time between updates, because there's another fic I'm working on that desperately needs an update. The fic is_ The Ring of the Rohirrim: There_ if you're interested (please be) and I think it's not bad, if a bit Mary-Sueoid.**


	5. Chapter Two

**A/N: Sorry this took so long. School (or what passes for school) has been chaotic, there are forty chickens due this week, auditions for a play...Chaos. Love that word. Anyhoo...**

**Chapter Two**

I followed Adele who followed Rose down the hall to the apartments. Rose was chatting about the things girls chat with new acquaintances about. It seemed Adele would get the room that, once upon a time, had been Carlotta's.

"Mlle. Giry said once," Rose said somewhat conspiratorially, "that this was the room Carlotta Guidicelli had. Eleven years ago, the PTO made her sing like a toad because she insulted Christine."

I nearly tripped. So I would have to tell her tonight. Oh well.

"The PTO?" Adele asked.

"Yes, the Phantom of the Opera. Or haven't you heard of him?"

"No, I haven't. Who is he?"

"I don't know that any of us really know who he is. He lives under here somewhere, and we pay him to stay out of trouble—fifteen thousand a month. Ten years or so ago, when I was just starting ballet school, there was a great scandal involving him, a chorus girl named Christine—" I heard Adele jump—"What? And the patron at the time." A pause. "Well, I have to go back to rehearsal—I have a solo two scenes from now. You ought to come soon. I'll see you later." Rose left, and Adele shut the door.

"Papa, perhaps you could explain," she said to the seemingly empty room.

"Perhaps, but not now. Go to rehearsal. I'll bring your things up. You did en excellent job, Adele."

"Thank you, Papa." She went to rehearsal, and I went to get her things.

Late that night, I sat with my composition it progress over her bedroom, waiting for her to come back. I was scribbling notes without really thinking about it. Tonight, I would have to go back and tell her about the year I had been running from since it had ended. I would have to relive each painful, embarrassing moment of the whole thing—yes, now that I looked back on it, I realized that it was embarrassing. Love can make us do embarrassing things, as Shakespeare demonstrates all too well. I like to think of him as a sort of angel of words.

"Father," Adele called softly from below, "I know you're up there. I'm ready."

I opened the trapdoor and jumped down, leaving my composition in the Heavens. "Are you sure you want me to tell you?" I asked her, sitting in a chair. "It's not a happy story."

"Well, I've heard most of it today, so what I really want is your side of it."

I leaned back and closed my eyes. "The years passed above the Opera Populaire, but Erik, now the Phantom of the Opera, did not notice them. His post in the opera house was to cause trouble. He dropped lamps on people's heads, he scared chorus girls with voices that seemed to come out of the walls, he stole things, he forced operas on unwilling managers, and other such petty tyrannies. He was paid generously to do no more. But, when a young woman named Christine Daaé joined the chorus, twenty thousand was not enough, for he had fallen in love. He followed the girl everywhere. One day, he heard her say to her friend that her father, a Swedish violinist, had promised to send her an angel of music. That night, Erik took a violin to the secret room behind her bedroom and played for her, and she believed it was her angel of music, sent by her father from heaven. Every night, he did this, and every night, Christine would sing for him, and every night he would go to his underground desk and compose like nobody had composed before.

"A few months passed like this, and Erik grew ambitious. He wanted to replace the prima donna, a conceited girl named Carlotta, with Christine Daaé. He did this, though it was his downfall, for one night, Christine's childhood sweetheart, now the patron, came to see an opera. He recognized her, and they fell in love. The patron, named Raoul, and Erik fought for many months over Christine, and finally Erik took her below the opera house. Raoul followed them, and Erik caught him with the Punjab Lasso."

"Punjab Lasso?" Adele asked.

"One of Erik's many talents. The Punjab Lasso is a noose, though it is used as a weapon, not merely a means of execution. He told Christine that, should she choose to leave the labyrinth her lover's life would be forfeit, though, should she stay, he would live. She had little time to choose, for the employees of the opera house were coming with the surété to bring Erik, who had murdered two men who worked at the opera, to justice. She chose to leave the labyrinth, but Erik could not bring himself to kill the one she loved. He let Raoul go with Christine, and then…went temporarily insane." I sighed. "Condensed, but there it is, Adele."

"Didn't Mlle. Giry bring you the mask?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"She told me. How did she know who I was?"

"I told her, since she asked. She's my friend, Adele. Once upon a time, she was my student. She was never very good at singing."

Adele laughed. "I sha'n't tell her you said that."

"Oh, she knows. She doesn't mind."

Adele looked like she was plotting something. I didn't ask what, because I had a shrewd idea. "Thank you for telling me the story, Papa." She kissed my cheek. "Good night."

"Not so fast, Adele. What do you think of the Opera Populaire?"

"Well…it's really…uncivilized under all the airs and graces. Not that it's a bad thing, but there are always two ways a person might act. And everyone gossips too much, but that's all right, so long as they don't gossip about me."

"If they learn about this, they'll spin tales out of clouds to gossip about you. But everyone gets gossiped about occasionally. Particularly me."

"I noticed that."

"Do you like it here?"

She shrugged. "I can't find anything truly repulsive about it yet, though I'm sure I'm missing something. So far, it suits me. I just hope I get good parts."

"So do I. Good night and good luck." I went back to Hell through the Heavens with my composition.

**A/N: Is it too short? I do these all in notebooks, so chapters that seem really long end up really short. Next chapter involves...ahm...a strange coincidence. That's what the chapter's called, I think.**


	6. Envy

**A/N: No strange coincidence, actually. I decided to take that part out. But here we have the brief, sad EC.**

**Envy**

The next several months were very lonely. Adele came down to see me sometimes, and I helped her practice. Meg became her friend, even more then the other chorus girls, mostly because, I thought, Adele didn't have anything serious to hide from Meg. If it hadn't been for Meg, I don't think Adele would have lasted a month in this bizarre world full of people, gossip, lovers, and lapdogs. The managers, the Brothers Varens as they were called, followed my orders about Adele, which were nothing I had to pull teeth for. I just made sure they wouldn't fire her. One day she came down, and I saw her jumping up and down on the other side of the lake and waving a sheaf of papers around.

"Papa, I got a solo in Faust!" she was shouting.

"Well, come over! We need to celebrate." As she poled the boat across, I hunted down an ancient bottle of champagne I knew was hiding in my pantry. I washed it off in the lake.

"Oh, Papa, don't," Adele said, laughing nervously.

I looked at her with the masked eye. "Not afraid, are you?"

"No, but how long has that been in the pantry?"

I looked at it. "I suppose you're right. I threw it in the lake. It landed with a loud splash and bobbed off. "What's your part?"

She smiled wryly. "I'm Envy." **(Read Dr. Faustus. Envy does have lines.) **I laughed, and she joined in. "I don't deserve it, do I, Papa?"

"Absolutely not. I suppose I did know they would do this, I just didn't see any sense in complaining."

"A novel idea, Papa. I know you fiddle with the brothers on my behalf. You don't have to do it. I'm doing just fine."

"Because of me, dear, and don't forget it. And Envy isn't such a bad starting point, anyway. It's hard to pack that much envy into the few lines you have."

"They must really like me."

"Oh, they do. Maybe you'll be where Marinette is someday."

She shuddered. "A frightening prospect. I should go, though. Meg's having a party for me, and—some friends are coming. I shouldn't be late."

I caught the pause, but pretended not to. "Go on, then, angel of music."

She glared. "Don't call me that."

"All right, Adele." She left, and I followed in the heavens. She went to Meg's large room, where the party was apparently going to be. I went to the peephole in the ceiling of the room and watched. Most of the "little actors," the new recruits who rarely got to do anything interesting, were there. I watched Adele closely, and found out that my suspicions had proved correct. A very handsome Italian dancer named Alexandre was apparently well-acquainted with my daughter. He knew what he was doing. Adele, however, hardly knew what to make of him. She had always read love-stories, but she had never been party to one. They were sitting in a corner talking in Spanish. I was surprised they could both speak it. I unfortunately, couldn't.

Giuseppi crept slowly closer, disconcerting Adele more with every inch. Finally she asked, in French, "What do you want?" He held her face between his hands. "Only my father does that," she scolded. She began to push him off, then changed her mind. "But I suppose you may." He kissed her. She looked quite—surprised is the only word I can find.

"You're very odd, you know," he said. "You act like you've never met anyone but your father before."

"Before I came here, I hadn't."

"You hadn't?"

"No."

Giuseppi looked puzzled. "Who is your father? It was cruel of him never to let you meet anyone."

Adele turned very angry. "My father is twice any man in the world." I was flattered, to say the least—of course, it wasn't true. Adele went to a different corner, leaving Giuseppi to swear at himself before going to her.

"Adelita, I'm so sorry. I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't think. Try to from now on, all right?"

Giuseppi laughed. "You _are _strange." He kissed her again, and this time, Adele had some idea of what was going on. I turned away and leaned against a wall. The party was over, and the partygoers were returning to their haunts.

So my Adelita, my darling little Adele, was in love with a ballet boy. Not that I had anything solid against him. He was intelligent, good looking, and he would treat her well. But, as Adele had noticed, though he was intelligent he did not think. He would rush off to—do something crazy—if he found out that I was her father. But I trusted Adele, for now. I also trusted Meg. I hoped it wouldn't be in vain.

Adele went about smiling for the next month of rehearsal. Often I oculdn't speak to her, so I left notes. I didn't use the seal I used for the Brothers, however. Jacques and Michel were quite capable of putting two and two together. Meg lived up to my expectations, constantly reiterating my warnings. Luckily for me, Adele understood that this was necessary and didn't become annoyed with it. Until then, I had never understood how much easier the Giry matriarchy made my life.

And then the Day came. Adele would perform for Paris. It was April twenty-third, an altogether lucky day to begin an acting career, I thought, it being Shakespeare's birthday. I inconspicuously helped with setting up the stage before the opera, then repaired to Box Five to watch the theatre fill up to its fullest. About five minutes before the opera was to begin, something happened that nearly made me drop dead of a heart attack, healthy though I am.

"My angel of music," a voice breathed behind me.

I didn't believe it, but it couldn't be Meg. But she _couldn't _have come. Not after hiding for twelve years. I turned slowly.

"Christine."

It was her, but she was different. The Christine I knew had looked happy, carefree. This one was sad, almost despairing, but undoubtedly Christine. I found myself involuntarily moving toward her, and stopped myself. I forced myself to say, "Good evening, Comtesse. Why have you come?"

"To see the opera, and you, I hoped."

"Then why haven't you come before?" Now that I had mastered my love for her, I could think. I knew the answer.

"Raoul doesn't let me. He won't let me sing, or even watch other people sing. He's afraid of…of you. But he left for the night to visit his brother, the poor man."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Raoul's gone to see him."

"Ah. But what are you trying to say, Comtesse?" That word caught in my throat like a cherry pit, and my eyes watered. "If you're trying to say, I don't like the choice I made can I change it, I have an answer. It is no, Christine." My voice shook a tiny bit, and I forced it to stay even. No weakness. None at all. "If Raoul was dead, it might be different. But he is _alive_, Comtesse." She began to cry. I stepped forward again to hold her and say I hadn't meant it, of course I'll take you back. But no. I would not. I would not. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and gave it to her. I went back to my seat.

But she wasn't finished. "Shall I die alone, unloved?" I didn't answer. "Shall you?"

"Comtesse," I said, to remind myself who I was speaking to, "You don't know what it is to be alone. And, besides, Raoul will love you when you're going, when you're gone. And I love you, though it makes little difference."

"And what about you? No one will ever know. No one will ever go down into the darkness to find out if you're dead."

"Yes, they will."

"Who?"

"My daughter." I heard Christine fall into a chair behind me. "I adopted her. She's performing tonight." I was silent. I heard Christine stand, but not go. "Go away, Christine. I've suffered too much to take you back now." There. Please, let her leave.

But no. She tuned me to face her and kissed me. Reluctantly at first, I gave in. We were both crying. Why had I told her no? I had hoped for this for twelve years, and now I threw it away. Finally she left. I wished she had given back the handkerchief..

**A/N: Another long walk features in the next chapter. R&R.**


	7. In Which Mistakes are Made

**A/N: OK, this took a while, but it's longer than usual. Happy spring!**

**In Which Mistakes are Made**

I barely paid attention to the opera. I would have left, but Adele would have been very angry and taken no excuses. And she did perform well for all of the three minutes she had her own part. I applauded absentmindedly and regretted it later. Adele came up to box five when she thought nobody could see her.

"You were excellent, Adele," I said, trying to sound cheerful and failing dismally.

"Well, I went flat on one bit, but I suppose I was all right." She tilted her head to one side and looked at me. "Is everything all right? You look sick."

"No, it isn't." I sat back down. "Christine—the Comtesse de Chagny—she came today."

"The one you…fell in love with?" I nodded. "I'm sorry, Papa." I nodded again. "Papa, go for a walk, go swimming in the lake, something. Just don't drown yourself in ink and bury yourself in paper."

I smiled a little in spite of myself. "Not sixteen yet, and already telling me what to do. I'll go for a walk. Happy?"

She kissed my cheek. "Yes. I'll see you later." She flitted out of the box and down to the changing rooms, presumably. Below in section ten I could see Meg and Christine talking. I closed my eyes and turned around. A walk. No more opera for an hour or so. I followed the crowd out of the doors, since they were all wrapped up in coats and their own affairs, and it was rather dark anyway. It was a drizzly night with a sullen east wind, perfectly matching my mood. Somehow I ended up skipping stones on the spot on the Seine where I had found Adelita eleven years ago. Eleven years—by the opera, I must be old. How old? I had been eighteen when I left the Sultana, yes, so I was twenty and some when I met Christine. She left when I was twenty-one, so I was thirty-three. I was old. Old enough to have decided to do something moral for the first time in my life, no matter how much I hated myself for it after, and during.

"Christine," I said to the river, "Third time pays for all. If there is one."

I went back around eleven at night and "drowned myself in ink and buried myself in paper." I knew I was hiding from my problems, but it was all I knew to do.

"Father," said a reproachful voice, making me jump and ruin eight measures. "Did you even go for a walk like you said you would?"

"Yes, Adele. It didn't do much good, but I know how old I am."

She laughed. "Really? How old are you?"

"Thirty-three."

"A worthy age. And how old am I?"

"About sixteen. I don't know, though." I pulled her onto the arm of my chair. "But you're just right. How are you and Giuseppi getting along?"

"Oh…well enough, I suppose."

"Meaning you won't tell me. I understand."

"Of course, Father. Girls must have their secrets. Good night, and don't forget to go to sleep." She went back, and I set about fixing the measures I had blotched.

I woke up later with my pen still in my hand and leaking all over the page. Christine was singing in my head.

_Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye;_

I stuck my head in the lake and held it under for as long as I could.

_Don't think about the things which might have been._

I sat at my desk with a hunk of bread from the pantry.

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you!_

I hummed another tune to try to make her stop.

_Or as unchanging as the sea…_

"Be quiet," I said aloud. "I think of you. I think of you all the time."

…_me, of me!_

And then a new song. All right. That was it. I sat at my organ and pounded all the notes that came into my head—it still didn't drown out Christine. I needed a break, I decided. I picked up Much Ado about Nothing, a suitably airheaded play, I thought, and began to read.

_Past the point of no return…_

And that didn't work either. I crossed the lake and ascended to the Heavens, there to eavesdrop on the operatic world. It appeared I had come at an opportune moment, because as I passed over the office the Brothers shared I heard a heated argument between the managers and Marinette. This was an unusual occurrence, since Marinette was a generally sensible girl, and knew that it was not in her best interest to argue with the Brothers regularly.

"Messieurs," she said, with a loud note of anger in her voice, "I want a life. I've lived here—well, here and the school—since I was five, and I want a family that isn't all tittering, gossiping girls and old men who don't see straight! If you don't let me go, then I'll just leave now, and you'll have to find me an understudy for Faust."

There was a silence. I wondered how long Marinette had wanted to say that. So she was leaving. I, for one, would miss her; she was quite possibly the best actor, male or female, that the Opera Populaire had come across. But a replacement…I ran off to find Adele. I found her backstage.

"Adele," I whispered through the wall separating us, "How would you like to replace Marinette? She has decided to retire."

"She was going to do that, yes, but me?"

"Why not?"

She sighed. "All right. But don't make the Brothers pick me. Just point it out. I don't want it that badly."

Oh, Adele, you are something I have seen before. "All right. In an hour, you'll be prima donna."

By the time I got back to the darkness above the office, Marinette had gone and the Brothers were going down the list of actresses.

Michel: "Jeanette Macelle?" **(C is supposed to have the 5 thing—couldn't find it)**

Jacques: "Absolutely not."

Michel: "Rose Manette?"

Jacques: "I don't think so."

And on it went. Finally they were down to five, then three, then two. Jacques, the only assertive one, took to sulking in the corner when they eliminated Carmine Chouinard, since he had a pronounced crush on the girl. So, Michel and Charles argued inconclusively for several minutes. I allowed them to carry on until they bored me, then intervened since Adele was still in the running.

"Gentlemen," I said coolly from over their heads, "must we argue over this?"

I had interrupted, and Charles stopped abruptly. "W-we would be happy to hear your opinion, Monsieur."

"I am so glad. No matter how well Maria hides it, she's well past her prime. She would lose her charm in less than a year, and we'd be right back here again." In all honesty, Maria was quite good and only twenty-one, but if les Messieurs pushed Adele off, I would have to be vindictive.

"So you think we should use Adelita, Monsieur?" Michel said. Charles was audibly shivering, and Jacques talked very little, so Michel was spokesman by default.

"Obviously."

"Well, then. Thank you for your input, Monsieur. Charles, if you could go fetch Adele, I'll draw up the contract," Jacques said, taking control of the situation as he often did. Charles apparently didn't get it straight, so: "Charles?"

"Y-yes, Jacques." Charles left quickly. I heard the unmistakable sound (for me, if for nobody else) of writing.

"Where are you?" Michel half-shouted. I was disturbing him, it seemed.

"Near enough, M. Varens."

"Why can't I see you?"

I paused dramatically. "Would you like to?"

"Not particularly, but it would be considerably less unsettling."

I dropped through the ceiling with a great swirl of my cloak, landing like a thundercloud, but with much more stealth. Michel backed into the wall. Jacques glanced up, and sighed before returning to his contract. "That tongue of yours has gotten you in trouble like I always said it would, little brother."

Michel had begun swearing the moment the trapdoor opened, and now his oaths increased in volume and flamboyance.

"Mind your manners, Michel," I scolded, smiling my most unsettling smile. His mouth shut like a trap as the door opened. Charles entered, Adele in his wake. He looked around, white in the face, and diplomatically decided to act like nothing had happened. Jacques pushed the contract across his desk, and Adele read it. I read it over her shoulder.

"_Twelve_ a month!" I exclaimed. "You misers, she deserves at least twenty."

"Fifteen," Jacques said.

"Eighteen."

"Sixteen."

"Not a centime less than seventeen!" I put my hand to the hilt of my sword.

"No, Papa!" Adele shrieked, grabbing the offending hand. My hand fell, and hers flew to her mouth. "Oh…"

"'Papa'?" Michel asked. "Anyone care to explain?"

**A/N: Mistakes were made. Next chapter includes an explanation, and, if the explanationisn't too long, some insanity.**


	8. Madness Descends

**A/N: Apologies. This story isn't the only place madness is descending. OK, in this chapter I change POV for the first time of many. Later I do (I think) Meg, and Michel and Charles Varens. Believe me, it is necessary, and later on, I kind of like the way it works out. Read on.**

**Madness Descends**

There was a silence, and Adele sat weakly on Jacques's desk. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "I was an idiot. It was only money." I turned to les Messieurs, looking each one in the eye. "Now, when I tell you what I am going to tell you, we will each hold the other party's life in our hands. I suggest you be very careful with mine, because mine bites. However…" I drew my sword and looked at it. "If you don't pledge to never speak of this to anyone, I will have to kill all three of you." Adele hid her face.

Michel looked at his brothers, both of whom nodded. "We pledge."

"Good." I put my sword on the desk, but not out of reach. An intimidated audience is one of the best kinds—only an audience that hangs on your every word is better, or one that is both at once. "This girl is my adopted daughter. She has lived and studied with me for eleven years. If you inhibit her progress in any way, I shall have to be firm. This is all you need to know." I put the sword back, unbelted the whole works, and handed them to Adelita. "For you, dear. I trust you haven't forgotten?" She shook her head. "Sign the contract, please." I scribbled out the original salary and put in the new figure—sixteen and a half. I knew I had to bribe them, and I knew they would take what they could get. She signed; I nodded and went out the normal door. They didn't need to know how to open mine from the outside.

Once outside, I looked both ways and disappeared through the wall, having no idea what I would do next. Eavesdropping had lost its charm, I couldn't concentrate enough to compose, I had fallen out of love with reading years ago (once I had read in all my spare time—way back at the gypsy camp), and there was really little else I ever did. And, just to complicate matters further, Christine was singing again. I couldn't understand the words anymore, but I could hear her voice, and it maddened me. I was a fool to have let her go. I was a fool to have let Raoul live. I was a fool to have not said the Three Words. I was a fool…a fool…a fool…

Finally I went below and played Bach on my organ, and Beethoven when I ran out of Bach, and a few others. Bach and Beethoven are among my favorite composers. They have, I think, the gift of music that I have, and that Christine had. They were visited by the angel of music. But as I played, I did not think of that. I thought only of my fingers, to the extent that I forgot about everything else. I played and played without ever stopping.

♫

_**Adelita**_

When Papa had been in the office, I knew something was wrong. He had never, ever, let les Messieurs see him closer than the width of the theatre—why should that change now, for me, for something I did not need? And he had not argued with les Messieurs about my original pay, a mere five thousand a month, though I could see why. I was in a tenuous position without the Phantom expressing undue interest in my financial affairs. And as I looked closer, I saw an unfamiliar expression on his face: there was fear, longing, desperation, and self-hate, all, I knew, because of his brief meeting with Christine. What had she really said, and what had he said back? He had been calm, composed, normal last night when we had talked briefly about his walk, but I could tell he had regretted whatever it was he had said to Christine. _What_ had he said? Come to think of it, what would I have said? I thought about that. I had no idea. I walked back to the theatre without really seeing where I was going, and intending to keep this a secret. They would find out, they would scold me for not telling, they would coo over it, and all that could wait until les Messieurs decided to make it official.

That night I went down, not really wanting Papa to notice me, just wanting to see what he was doing. He was playing something on his organ—Beethoven, perhaps? There were beads of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes were shut. Everything but his hands was shaking. I got out of the boat and walked soundlessly to him. The floor was vibrating slightly, and I hummed with it. I tapped his shoulder—he didn't notice. Unsure what to do, I left him to his playing. I came back the next day, and he was still playing. I could not see any sign that he had gotten up. The only change was that he was playing a new piece. It suddenly occurred to me that this was one of the five or six times I had seen him sit at his organ without a pen and a composition in progress in front of him. What had Christine said to him—or vice-versa—that could have brought about this change?

The third day when I came down, he was playing Bach's Little Fugue. I have always liked that piece, and I to this day have no clue why. It makes me think of stairways As I approached the island, there was suddenly an agonized, inhuman yell when the music reached it most intense, and the notes cut off abruptly. Then a name, screamed, and echoed uncountable times—"Christine!" I poled as I never had before.

My father was lying on the ground behind the organ stool. The mask had been thrown and lay in the corner, and his hands were over his face. I gently pulled them away. The half-deformed mouth was swollen, and his lips were cracked. Was it possible he had had nothing to drink for three days? His cheekbones stood out more than usual. He had not stopped. Fool that I am, I had not made him eat or drink. Tears were running down my face—not his, though I could tell they would have been had he not been so terribly dehydrated. I ran to the cupboard and filled a cup with water, then held him in my arms and made him drink. Just a little, for I knew the consequences of rushing in blindly. I rolled him up in his blanket and went to ask les Messieurs for a week's leave. It was granted with minimal explanation—my father was ill, I needed a week off. They accepted that as if my father and I were both normal people. It was a pleasant surprise.

I began my week by organizing some of the mess down there. Papers littered every flat surface, and the majority of the crooked ones. I did not look at them, just organized them and put them in little piles in the corner. Luckily for me, Papa labeled each page with the name of the composition and the page number. It annoyed me to be unable to pick up my father and put him away, but I have never been strong—I have never gotten taller than five feet.

I had made definite progress on the floor when Meg arrived.

"Everyone heard how you took a week off for your father," She said in explanation as she got out of the boat. "I thought I ought to see if I could help." She looked around curiously. "I haven't been down here in twelve years."

"Thank you so much for coming, Meg," I said, tying up her boat. "I need help, but I didn't want to go back up in case they decided that meant my leave was over."

"So, what can I do? Help you get him into bed?"

"Precisely." We put him on a pair of blankets and slowly dragged him to the bedroom, then heaved him into the bed. He was unconscious, but muttered incomprehensibly when we picked him up.

Meg looked at his face, frowning thoughtfully. "He doesn't look so bad in this light," she murmured. I smiled behind her back. "What happened to him? He looks like he hasn't drunk anything in days—or eaten anything."

"I don't think he has."

"The organ business?"

"Yes." I had told Meg everything, of course, down to the pieces my father had been playing the last three days. "He was playing the Little Fugue—"

"Bach?"

"Yes, that one, and he stopped short and…"

Meg nodded and gave me a hug. That is one thing I like very much about Meg. She is never self-conscious offstage.

"One of us has to go shopping," I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "Why don't I stay? He'd be less surprised if he woke up that way."

"Fine with me." I detected something odd in her tone, but I didn't question it. It was not my business. "Do you have a list?"

"No. Just food for a few days—I've never known him to be picky—and firewood. He always made magical fires, and I don't have the Gift." I went to the closet wherein my father kept his box of money. I took some out and gave it to Meg with a box of the "Giry Chocolates." "I really appreciate this, Meg. You can buy whatever you want with the change, Father won't mind."

"Thank you, but I don't think I will. The chocolates are enough, or haven't you ever tried them?"

"I have. Take your time. We're in no hurry." I resumed my cleaning while Meg went back to the world of light. I had never realized how much time my father spent composing. I mean, I always knew it was his main occupation, but I had always assumed he slept sometimes. Now that I thought about it, I should have seen this coming.

**A/N: In the next chapter, madness continues. I'm not entirely sure about the rest of it.**


	9. Sixty Percent

**A/N: I have a beta. Now that everything has been sorted out, a great big round of applause for Sannikex! Enjoy…**

**Sixty Percent**

Meg returned some vague amount of time later (there is no sense of time when the world is utterly dark except for the magical candles) with her shopping. I had been organizing papers, and Papa had stayed asleep.

"Where is the pantry?" she asked.

"Through the door on the right, then the second from the left." The island had an open space in the middle with the organ and piano, and off this space opened three doors—his bedroom (seldom used), the storerooms, and his office. And there was one room in the—house—I was forbidden to enter. It was the leftmost door in the storeroom, and it had a magical lock. When I had tried to open it when I was seven and been shot halfway across the room, Papa had told me quite clearly that that room was for him and him alone; yet he had only ever gone in it once. I had heard gears and hissing, but nothing more.

But, back to the present. Meg went into the storeroom and put away some of her groceries, and I followed with some more. We put the firewood in Papa's room, the only one with a fireplace. After everything was put away we made dinner, and ate in silence. The silence underground sort of calls to its own. After dinner, Meg went back up. I caught her glance longingly at Papa before going up. What was between them? And why hadn't Meg—or possibly Papa—told me? I shook it off and went to sleep in the boat as I had for twelve years. Despite everything, it was nice to be home again.

♫

_Erik_

I woke up tired, dreadfully thirsty, starving, and sore; and, wonder of wonders, in my bed. What on earth had I been doing? I went down the list. Composing? There had been an organ, yes, but no paper. No. Spying? There had been some of that, I remembered, but that was a long time ago. No. Swimming? No. I wouldn't be so thirsty. I rubbed my eyes—the mask was gone. Where was it? Christine! She had been at the opera! Suddenly it all came back. She had been at the opera, to see me. I had gotten Adele a promotion, then played for…a long time. How long?

The mask was on the bed table with a plate, a cup and a note. The note said in Adele's handwriting: _Papa, I'm sleeping. If you need anything, wake me up, but YOU MUST EAT!_ Adele was here, then. I blushed. Why had I been so stupid? She was supposed to be at the opera house, but here she was taking care of me. I drank the water and ate the bread and strawberries she had put out. Where had she gotten strawberries? I never kept them. I hadn't even had any since I left the gypsy camp. Why was my room so clean, and why was there a _wood_ fire in the fireplace? I got out of bed and went hunting for all the papers that had gone missing from my floor. They were in neat little stacks in the atrium. I chuckled. Adele was a treasure. I picked up the pile of my latest and set to finishing it.

Adele woke up an hour or so later and checked my room before coming out, looking alarmed, and trying the office.

"You scared me," she scolded.

"I'm sorry, dear. Thank you."

"Do you feel all right?"

"Tired, hungry, but it'll go away. Where did you get the strawberries?"

"Meg went shopping." She came and sat on the arm of my chair and read over my shoulder as I wrote. This habit of hers has made me compare her to some sort of very friendly parrot.

"Meg was here?"

"She was here. You know, Papa, she likes you very much."

"Does she?" Adele nodded. "What do you mean by that?"

She looked away and shrugged. "I could mean lots of things, I guess, but I'm not sure which. Why don't you ask her?"

"Because that isn't the way I do things. Thank you for sorting out my papers."

"It was a matter of survival, Papa," she said teasingly. "The dust was terrible, and I was afraid I'd trip on them. You weren't this disorganized when I was living here."

"I know. I've degenerated—I'm sorry. Your room isn't the neatest either, though."

She stuck her tongue out. "You know, sometimes I wish there weren't so many secret passages here." She coughed—it was a disturbing sound.

"How long have you been coughing like that?" I asked, putting down my pen.

"Oh, a week or two—since it started raining every day."

"Hmm. How long did you convince les Messieurs to let you off?"

"A week, starting…yesterday…I think. Is today tomorrow?"

We talked pointlessly for hours. I had missed her, though wee had been living in the same house. The same house, two different worlds. It was wonderful to have her back. I do hear the music of the night, but it is distinctly quieter when Adele is not home. I got more done that happy week than the past month.

At one point Adele asked me, "How much of your time do you spend composing?"

"Math problem, Adele. Have some paper." She sighed and took a piece. "On a good day, consider a day twenty-four hours even though we can't really tell, I can get in twenty-two hours. On a normal day, call it closer to fifteen. On a bad day, five or less. Get an average, and tell me the percentage per month."

After a few minutes, she had an answer. "On average, sixty percent."

I did it. "Yes, I suppose you're right with what I gave you. Seems like more." I returned to the paper to fill my quota. Only sixty percent?

**A/N: COMING SOON: TB makes its appearance in the Opera Populaire. Wait a minute, it already did. Forget it. I am hopeful that further chapters will be somewhat longer. Things are going to start happening soon. Dun dun dun.**


	10. Sisters

**Sisters**

After Adele went up again, the performances of Faustwere still going. She resumed normal business, with the exception that she was getting new, better parts. In the coming opera, she had the lead role. When Giuseppi heard about the promotion (he had not heard before she left, and had not completely believed it was true) he started to act like she was some sort of long-lost princess, and made the whole thing quite awkward. I resolved to promote him, too, and began plotting again. Ah, the joy of manipulation, and receiving twenty thousand a month for it.

Adele's first real part was Alice in Robert le Diable. She practiced and practiced, and even when I asked her to stop she hummed her songs constantly. "Stop that," I would say. "I want to be the best," she would say. I could not argue with that. In a way, I suppose I was nervous. If she was worse than Christine, I would be disappointed. If she was better, I would be resentful. I kept letting my pen leak on my music, trying to decide which I would rather, and finally gave up worrying and hoped that everything would turn out all right.

Robert le Diable started playing in November, around the time that I finished one opera and started a new one. Every night for a week before the first performance Adele had insisted on coming down and rehearsing until I made her go to sleep. She hardly looked nervous when I sneaked backstage to wish her luck five minutes before the show.

I hugged her. "What, you aren't nervous?"

She shuddered, smiling, and whispered, "Oh, I am. But I am also terribly excited. I also trust your skills as a ventriloquist if I can't find my voice."

"Thank you. Break a leg." She slipped out into the bustle of actors and actresses and harassed seamstresses. I went to my box. I was nervous, even if she wasn't. I fidgeted in box five until the play began, then I watched raptly. Adele sang, I had to admit, better than Christine had in Hannibal. All that practice had paid off. She even managed to look tall, which she most definitely was not. The eye of the audience was drawn to her; I could see it, and I was proud. I threw her the white rose I had found the night before in a florist's shop undeserving of it—it was white, streaked pink in the middle. She caught it and smiled at me shyly. I began to go to her room, then decided against it. She would be busy with the Opera Populaire tonight. I felt a little gloomy about that, and took the long way back down.

The long way down went over the atrium where tickets and drinks were bought before performances, and patrons chatted about the performance and dinner after. It was a huge room, with pink marble tiling and paintings of Dionysian revels on the ceiling. The grand staircase had a fork that ended here, but was roped off during performances. Having nothing better to do, I sat in the spot just over the Dionysius on the ceiling from which you can hear any of the conversations in the atrium if you move your head a little. It took me a lot of practice to find the proper spot and proper motions, but it is a satisfying experience. It is remarkably like being able to eavesdrop on the whole world at once.

"We should go to _La Petite Italie_, Valerie.…"

"Wasn't their Richard wonderful? So handsome…." I snorted. Antonio handsome! Some taste that girl had.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, Madeline…."

"No, I need to get the children home…"

"Her name was Adelita, you said? Could I speak with her?" I scowled and singled out the speaker from the crowd. She was a tall young woman, perhaps eighteen, and she looked uncannily like Adele. She was talking to a ticket seller near the stairs.

"Well, Mlle. Cañas, I don't know. She'll be changing, I warrant. Not to be disturbed."

"But I must, Monsieur. It is very important."

I licked my lips. "Let her in," I said in the ticket seller's ear. "I shall see to it that she finds Adele. I believe I know who she is." The ticket seller merely went white, earning a concerned glance from Mlle. Cañas. "Now. Let her into the main hall."

"I am to bring you to the main hall," said the shaken ticket seller.

"Are you all right, Monsieur?"

"I hope so. Come, ma'mselle." He shambled up the stairs to the main hall with the young lady in tow. He did not leave her there without some encouragement.

"What is your name, my friend?" I asked.

"Where are you?" She looked around the hall. I think the paintings of theatre scenes on the walls confused her.

"Everywhere," I said, making sure my voice echoed properly.

"You are that Phantom they said was in box five are you not? What have you to do with my sister?" She looked more puzzled than afraid. This made me happy.

"Tell me your name, and I shall tell it to her."

"Isabella Cañas."

"Do you happen to be Adelita's sister?"

"I think so. Please tell her."

"Your wish is my command, Mademoiselle. I shall send her here, where you shall await her." I went to the over-the changing-room space where one could hear lots of girls were giggling. "Adele," I called. The room went silent.

"Please don't do that," she said. I heard several gasps.

"My sincerest apologies. There is no cause for alarm, and I assure you I am not peeking. I merely wished to inform you, Adelita, that you have a visitor waiting in the main hall."

"Male or female?" (Nervous titters.)

"Female."

"I'm coming."

"No, Adelita!" shrilled a few.

"What if it's a trap?"

"It isn't a trap, Caroline," Adele said coolly. "I'll see you later." She left the changing room. "So who is she, Papa?"

"I think she would rather tell you that."

"Fine, be like that." Her heels clacked to the main hall. "Hello?"

"Adelita?" said Isabella.

I heard the door shut. "I know you," Adele declared firmly, "but I don't remember who you are."

"Isabella."

"Isabella…my sister Isabella?" she asked in Spanish. There was a pause. "Yes, you are! I remember you weren't at the house when it burned down."

"I was at the opera with Marcelo and his mother."

Adele laughed. " Marcelo…you mean the boy who always pulled my pigtails and gave me a puppy for my fourth birthday."

"Yes. We got married, Adelita."

"Oh, goodness! When?"

"Last winter. What have you been doing for eleven years?"

"Oh…learning, mostly. I only started acting a year ago."

"And you're Alice already?"

"My father effected a promotion."

"Your father? Didn't he die?"

"Ahm…I was…"

"Go ahead and tell her, Adele," I said.

"Adopted. By the Phantom of the Opera."

"The one in box five."

"There is only one Phantom, Bella. I think we have some talking to do."

"Yes."

"Come on, I'll show you my room." They left and I did not follow them. I went back down and added a new character to my opera. Her name was Isabella.


	11. How the End Began

**How the End Began**

The year continued, as years do. Adele and I saw eachother less and less, for she was spending much of her time with Isabella; at least, the time she was not spending in rehearsal. A few times, Adele or Isabella would try to get me to go with them to restaurants, Isabella's house, and so on, but I never went. From the spying I had done on their conversations in the opera house, I liked Isabella; I just didn't want to have anything to do with her. How does one act around the long-lost sister of one's adopted daughter? I had no idea.

October came with a wet slap. Almost overnight Paris grew cold, windy, and rainy, the cold permeating even to my island. Often I had to stop and light fires as I composed because my hands cramped. The cold did not treat Adele well, either. She developed an alarming cough that would not go away. Isabella, Meg, and I begged her to see the doctor, but she refused, saying that it was only a cold; it would go away next week. But it got steadily worse. Often, she had trouble catching her breath while singing and she grew thin, pale, and tired, despite her sensible diet. I watched her with one eye for weeks, and so did Isabella and Meg.

Then, one particularly cold and wet Saturday in December after a performance of I know not what, Adele broke. She had been coughing all day, in fits, and one of these caught her as she was going back to her room after changing back into Adele. This one was worse than all the others: it left her crumpled on the ground, retching and spitting blood as Caroline held Adele's head back in a futile attempt to help her breathe. I dropped through the ceiling and rushed to her, ignoring the screams and yells of the actors.

"Caroline," I said. Caroline covered Adele with her own body, and a ballet boy streaked over to cover both the girls. "I am not going to hurt her!" I shouted. "Out of the way!"

"No, you—you—" Caroline shut her mouth, unable to think of an appropriate word.

I lit a finger on fire and waved it before the ballet boy's face. He broke out in sweat, but didn't move. "You try my patience, Jean-Baptiste de Joué. Move, or you'll regret it." Watching my finger carefully, he stepped aside a little. Caroline stood up and slapped him in the face, turning his nose into a small tomato, before pushing me off Adele. I waved my Finger of Doom at her, and she squealed and ran. I picked Adele up and cushioned my face in her hair, humming. I carried her to her room. Giuseppe followed me, a hand on the hilt of his epée. (Being an Italian actor, he had not made the transition from sword to firearm with the rest of the world. It was a matter of pride, a matter I agreed with him in.)

"Please find the doctor," I told him. "And if you find her, tell Meg—Mme. Giry—what has happened." He did not go. "_Now. _I swear, Giuseppe, I am as worried about her safety as you are."

"If you hurt her…" he growled.

"Yes, I know. Hurry!" He left as I opened Adele's door. I made her sit up in the bed and waited, watching for any signs that Adele was leaving the breathless, semiconscious daze she had drifted into after the bout of coughing had subsided. Ten minutes later, Giuseppe returned with the opera house's doctor and Meg. Meg gave me a reassuring smile, which I tried to return. The doctor went white, but tried to pretend I wasn't there as he examined Adele.

"She has consumption," he announced at last without looking up. "She may live a while, she may even recover—I don't know."

"Will she sing?" I asked.

"Maybe. She sang tonight, so it is likely she will be able to again." He did not look at me. He bent and poked through his bag and pulled out a bottle, some of the contents of which he spooned into Adele's mouth. After swallowing, she opened her eyes and made a face; apparently the medicine tasted bad.

"I have consumption?" she rasped, looking anxiously at the doctor.

"Yes, Adelita. Where have you been living before you came here? Be brief, please."

"Under the opera house with me," I said. There was no point in hiding any longer—it would be out soon enough.

The doctor looked at me for the first time since he had entered the room, aghast. Giuseppe looked form me to Meg, frowning suspiciously. I knew what he was thinking, and I would have to discourage that train of thought. It was totally absurd, anyway. Meg sat in one of the chairs, arms and legs crossed. When the doctor looked back to Adele, she nodded.

"Well," began the doctor. He then shook himself and resumed his usual professional sangfroid. "Is there not a lake under the opera house?" he asked of nobody in particular.

"Yes," I answered.

"Is it cold down there?"

"Generally, yes."

"And humid?"

"Yes."

The doctor looked reproachfully at me, a very daring move. "Then what do you expect, M. le Phantôme? That sort of air will cause consumption in a circus strongman." He looked me over with a doctor's gaze, and I was suddenly very glad that I had ever been to see a doctor. "You do not have it, though, I think. That is strange, if you are human."

"I am, Monsieur." Adele reached up and tapped my shoulder. I leaned close to hear her whisper, "Make him leave. I don't like him."

"Your patient desires your departure, Monsieur," I said, bowing floridly. "I hope you understand…." I said it with the slightest hint of a threat in my voice.

The doctor caught the hint. "Of—of course, Monsieur. Please call me if there are problems." He left so quickly I barely saw, and Meg and I followed him after Adele gave Giuseppe a look. Meg sat on a bench in the hall, and I sat against the wall across from her, head on my knees. I could feel her staring at me, and it was a discomfortingly nice feeling.

"What?" I demanded.

"You heard the doctor," Meg said reassuringly. "She might live. I think she will."

There was a silence. "Well….That's…good, I suppose." The silence continued awkwardly. The clock chimed midnight, and I heard someone coming. I looked up. It was Caroline. She looked at me, then Meg, then the door and back to me. She sat weakly next to Meg.

"Would someone please tell me what's going on?"

"I'm her father," I said, pointing at the door.

"Giuseppe is in there?" Caroline asked. Meg and I nodded. "What…is the problem?"

"Consumption," Meg said simply. Caroline looked at me, and I nodded. She stood and walked away quickly, pulling out a handkerchief. "Oh, dear," Meg whispered. Then she said to me, "You've given up on secrecy, then?"

"Yes." I dropped my head back onto my knees.

Giuseppe came out of Adele's room and shut the door quietly. "Asleep," he said. I went in and sat next to her in the chair. I watched her face—when she was asleep, she always looked like a cat, I thought—until I slept myself. I had strange dreams about Meg and Christine that I do not really remember.


	12. A Dare

**A/N: Readers, because I am in such a good mood, you get two chapters tonight. This one may be subject to change. R&R, s'il vous plait.**

**A Dare**

The next day, Charles and Jacques Varens came a-calling. I had no desire to see them just then, so I made myself extremely scarce. I didn't bother eavesdropping, because I knew what they would say. I also knew that if Adele had decided she would sing, she would sing one day. She had decided that, so she would sing, for better or worse. When the Varens pair left, I returned to the room. Adele was sitting against the headboard, looking thoughtful.

"Papa," she said when I entered, though I was quite sure she had not seen me, "what do you think of Mme. Giry?"

I looked sharply at her. I did not like the question. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just because," she said innocently.

"Well, then. You may consider yourself sworn to secrecy…or don't bother. I'm sure she knows." I sat on her table and steepled my fingers in the way that annoys Adele to the point that she thinks it should be a capital offense. "I taught her to sing and dance, at her mother's request. She was never good at singing. I called her Meglet, and I teased her all the time—I'm five years older than her, and infinitely more talented." Adele rolled her eyes. "She was always in love with me, no matter what I did." I paused, remembering one day when Meglet was thirteen and I had gotten annoyed with her batting her eyelashes. I had dared her to kiss me, and she had run from the room, sobbing. "I stopped teaching her when she was fourteen. A year later, I met Christine."

"That is a nice story, Papa, but it does not answer my question."

"I don't love her, Adele. There it is."

"Fine, have it your way." She looked unconvinced.

"I will, thank you." I picked up a piece of paper that sat on the table in a pile of papers like it. This one Adele had been composing on. I hummed it. It was pretty.

"Put that down. Now." I did. "It isn't finished, Papa. Until it is, nobody will read it." She coughed, then determinedly stopped. "I think, Papa, that you should find out what Meg thinks of you. I am quite convinced she still loves you."

"Accepted, but…." But I don't want her to remind me of Christine.

"You should think about it," she said firmly.

Later, I was below. Isabella had come to visit Adele, and I had left. I sat at my desk, slowly drawing notes on the piano score for the finished skeleton of an opera. Slowly because I was thinking of other things, namely Meg. Finally, the snail-pace of my progress annoyed me. I put down my pen.

"Should I go see Meg?" I asked the monkey I had on my desk. After a moment like a pause for thought, it began to play, its papier-mâché head bobbing up and down, up and down, its cymbals clinking in time to the music. The music slowed to a halt.

"A yes, I suppose." I put my pen on its sponge to keep it from messing all over the desk, put on my sword and most dramatic black cape, and poled across the lake to the passage that led to Meg's room. She was humming something, I heard, as I approached her room from the Heavens. I knew that tune—I had composed it for Christine. It was Angel of Music. Somebody had been listening in, it seemed.

Meg hummed one line, then I hummed the next. She stopped abruptly.

"Erik, what do you want?" she asked loudly.

I dropped through the ceiling, landing in a blue chair. Meg's room was brightly colored, fantastic, and badly lit, as it had always been and most opera girls' rooms were. I hadn't been in here in years. "I want," I said slowly, "to know what you think of me."

Meg blushed furiously, and her pen jerked—she had been writing a letter. "You don't need to ask me that, do you?"

"We haven't talked much in the last dozen years, Meglet. I rather do."

Slowly, she wrote a few letters in her letter. Her blush increased, and I waited patiently. "If you dared me to kiss you right now—" we were thinking along the same lines, there— "I would do it." She put her letter aside and looked at me with a sort of sheepish challenge in her eyes. "Would you?"

"I don't know." I was my turn to blush, and I looked down. Suddenly there was a hand on my chin, forcing me to look at the face that was six inches away from mine. I could feel the heat radiating from it.

Meg's eyes bored triumphantly into mine. I leaned back a little for breathing room. "I dare you," she hissed.

"You dare me." I was trying very hard not to laugh. It was not that I was laughing at her, but it was an immensely funny situation.

"_I dare you._"

I tried to look away, but it was impossible. "I suppose I don't have much choice in the matter, then."

"None whatsoever."

So I kissed her. What else could I have done? I found that I liked it. It was strangely different from Christine's kisses, and I think I know why. I had been Christine's Angel of Music; ineffable, mysterious, and melodramatic. I was Meg's childhood friend who had been asked to teach her things and had teased her as much as any schoolboy would have. They are, I think, very different things, and are kissed in different ways.

When I left, I was laughing hysterically. The laughter I had been suppressing had burst, Meg had caught it, and I had left. What would Adele think? Well, I had to tell her at any rate. I twitched my cloak (it had fallen off one shoulder) and straightened my mask, and set off to Adele's. I didn't notice until I was in the room that Isabella was still there. The two of them were playing chess. Adele saw me, giggled, and held out a hand to Isabella as if telling her to give something up. Isabella sighed. She took a jeweled hairpin out of her hair and gave it to Adele, who stuck it in her own hair.

"We had a bet, Papa," she explained briskly. "Bella bet her hairpin that you wouldn't go see Meg."

"I saw Meg," I grumbled.

"How did it go?" Isabella asked, moving a knight to H3 and taking out a pawn.

"Well…enough. Adele, take her knight. Put her in check."

Adele examined the board. "What? I don't see it. Oh, yes. Stupid." She took the knight off the contested square. "Check. Kissed her, did you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Don't you, now?" Adele said slyly. "Girls are often more sensible about these things than boys—men—what you will."

"Really?" I thought back to Christine. She had fallen wildly in love with a masked composer who carried her off to a cold, dark island in the Paris sewers, and then with a fop she hadn't seen in ten years. So girls were sensible?

The sisters looked insulted. "Have it your way, then," Adele snapped. "Checkmate."

"Lita, stop it. That's the third time in an hour."

I left without a word. I had some thinking to do.


	13. The Second Masquerade

**A/N: Now, listen up. I am now aware that PTO stands for Please Turn Over, not Phantom of The Opera. I KNOW! But I have been operating under this mistaken theory for almost a year, now, and changing it would mean completely rewiring my brain. I also like my way better. So, nothing is changing. This story is almost done, bear with me. I think two more chapters, then we're outta here. Thanks again to Sannikex, cool frood if there ever was one. By the way, Terry Pratchett wrote this book, Maskerade. Very amusing--his version of The Phantom. Read it.Happy back to school.**

**The Second Masquerade**

When I got down, I pulled out my violin for the first time in twelve years. And I surprised even myself with what I played. I played _The Resurrection of Lazarus._ I stopped when tears started dripping onto the strings. I put the violin back in its case, wound up the music box, and watched it for a long time before going swimming.

Through the Christmas season, my works progressed sporadically. I would drop my pen for days at a time to visit Meg and Adele, then suddenly an inspiration would hit me like a slap in the face and I would sprint down the stairs to scribble it down before it faded. I would come back up in fifteen minutes or so, whoever I was visiting would look at me with an exasperated smile, and I would say, "I'm sorry, where were we?" They would laugh in a way that said, "Oh that's quite all right," and tell me where we had been very patiently in a way that made my ears go red.

That Christmas, I got the best present, perhaps only present, I had ever gotten: Adele was allowed to resume normal life.

On New Year's Eve, Adele told me to come to her room. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, as Bella (I had finally begun using her nickname) and Meg had the chairs. I sat on the floor.

"Papa, you need to put out the fires," Adele said after pleasantries had been exchanged. "The whole house, including the ballet school, is buzzing about you, me, Meg, Bella, and Christine, and…Meg and I don't like it, is all." She looked at the other two. "And we had an idea, see, for tonight…."

"It was Meg's idea," Bella corrected.

"And the idea was?" I had a feeling I knew.

"The ball, Erik," Meg said. "If you came, as Adele's guest—or mine—" she and I blushed, the other two giggled, and I glared at them— "and just behaved yourself and spread the story a little, it would get to everyone. It would change as it went along, but they would know."

I remembered the last time I had shown up at a ball. It had not gone well, but I had been angry that time. Angry at Christine, and Raoul, and Carlotta, and André, and Firmin….This time though. Maybe it would work. _Behave yourself._ Honestly.

"Well…" I said.

"Please?" Adele whimpered.

"For Lita," added Bella.

I looked at Meg, who was being conspicuously silent. She had a mischievous grin. "Have you anything to add to our discussion, Meglet?"

"I dare you."

"You dare me?"

"I dare you."

I rolled my eyes as though I really didn't want to do this, though I rather thought I would have come anyway. "I'll come, girls." They gave themselves congratulatory looks. "But not as anyone's guest, you hear? I am the Phantom of the Opera. I have an automatic invitation."

"You do?" Bella asked.

"I always have assumed I do."

"Oh." Bella rolled her eyes.

"It is a masquerade, Papa..." Adele said after glaring at her sister briefly. "I hope you have a costume…?"

"You cannot be The Phantom of the Opera properly without a lot of them, Adelita. I have one."

"Oh. That's all right then." There was an embarrassed silence. I bowed and left through the usual hole in the ceiling, feeling quite annoyed with everything. I had not wanted to do it, then I had decided it was all for the best, now the carousel had come around and I didn't want to do it again. But I navigated the dusty, abandoned section of the Heavens where I kept my costumes, then decided against it. I might as well just go as I was. There I was, thinking I would go again. It was a good thing that the girls hadn't given me any time to think about this, or I would have made myself dizzy.

So. Two hours later, I went to the masquerade with Meg, Adele, Bella, and a very nervous Giuseppe. He had not been informed of the plan, but it seemed he understood why I was there. That did not mean that he was comfortable with the idea, but he dealt with it rather well.

When the four of us entered (fashionably late for maximum effect) a hush fell over the packed hall. People stared. Meg put a hand to her mouth.

"This wasn't part of the plan," she hissed.

"Thank you for telling me," I grumbled in the ventriloquist's fashion. I saw that one of the younger actors had come as me. He was shaking with fear. I choked back a laugh.

The staring contest continued for a nearly a minute, then the crowd seemed to come to the conclusion that I was in a good mood tonight, and that the thing to do was act as if I wasn't there, because this is what was done. The talk resumed, the music picked back up. Everyone seemed nervous, as if Meg and Adele had brought in a large, fierce dog on a thin leash. They all watched us out of the corners of their eyes, and gave me a wide berth as I passed. I talked to people politely, as if I was just another visiting parent. The dancing was starting when I managed to corner the young man dressed as me before he left to hide in a bathroom where I couldn't get him.

"Christophe Lecuyer!" I called. He stopped dead as if he had run into a wall. "I won't hurt you, Christophe. In all honesty, you fit the part."

He blushed crimson. "Th-thank you, monsieur."

"I shall see to a pay raise for you when I have the time."

"Thank you, monsieur." Now he was grinning. I nodded and ran into Meg.

"Why did you do that?" she asked as we slid towards the stairs.

I took her hand. "I'm in a good mood tonight."

"Oh." She took off her mask. Her face was pink and shining. "Let's go up to the balcony. I hate masquerade balls."

"Why?" I asked as I followed her up the grand staircase.

"I think of dancing as a way to show who you really are. Wearing a mask sort of…negates it."

I said nothing.

It was nearing the turn of the year. Meg and I stood on the balcony together, leaning on the rail as we watched the dancers below us. It looked, I thought, rather like something one would see if hit on the head very hard. There were so many blotches of color, and they were all spinning dizzyingly fast. A few blotches had strayed up the stairs, some onto the balcony. The ones on the balcony were rather far from Meg and me.

I looked at Meg. She was staring at the dance floor, her eyes slightly unfocused as if she was trying to see all of it at once. I started memorizing her, in case I wanted to see her now again later. Her face was still pink from the mask, and the soft little curls around the edges of her face were slightly damp. Her fingers were curled gracefully around the abandoned mask which hung over the railing, and the hem of her dress twitched as she tapped one foot to the rhythm of the music playing below.

Meg looked around at me, and I committed her eyes to memory—they were grey-green ringed with black.

"What do you want?" she asked. I opened my mouth to say something to the effect of nothing at all, everything was going just fine, but she cut me off. "No, don't tell me. I'll guess. You want…a pay raise."

"Twenty thousand is quite enough, thank you. Guess again." Now, I knew what I wanted, but I had missed my cue. I would have to improvise.

"You want…you want everyone to stop gossiping about you."

"Are you crazy? I love that, Meglet."

"I suppose it was a silly idea. You want…." She hung her mask on the rail and looked back at the dancers before whispering, "You want Christine back."

I stared at her. We had never mentioned Christine between us. "Well…yes, but…." I paused, watching the hallucination below. "If she came…."

"Things wouldn't work out like they did thirteen years ago, you're saying, Erik."

"Right." There was a pause. "It's like winning the lottery," I said after a moment. "Everyone wants to, but what does one do when one wins it?"

Meg gave a sad little laugh. "One makes a pretty little speech about how one is going to give it to charity, then wishes one had it back afterwards." I nodded. She looked back at me. "I've had my three guesses. What do you want?"

My cue had rolled around again. I looked about me frantically, as if hoping something would drop out of the ceiling, or explode, or turn green and ruin the moment to keep me from doing this. Nothing obliged. I took Meg's hands, resigned to my doom. I looked at them, to avoid looking at her face. Feeling like I was jumping off a very high bridge, I said a little too loudly as if reassuring myself that I was really doing this, "Will you marry me, Meg?"

For a minute, nothing happened. Perhaps I was imagining it, but it seemed that the people around us had grown far too quiet.

"Are you…" I felt her looking at me. She did not say "serious".

She said, "Yes, Erik."

**Don't get your hopes up. **


	14. The End of the Song

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Rue Marie. To the rest of you...I'm terribly sorry, but it's like _moira, _only I'm the Three Fates in one.**

**The End of the Song **

♫

_Michel Varens _

I stared, dumbfounded, at the two on the balcony. Marguerite…how could she? How _dare_ she? She loved him. I could see it. They stood there, staring at eachother. Words were said. I did not know what they were until I faintly heard the Ghost say,

"Will you marry me, Meg?"

"Are you…yes, Erik," Meg answered. After a moment's silence, the clock tolled midnight and a lone violinist began to play a tune from one of the Ghost's operas, called All I Ask of You. The tune was drowned in a wave of applause. I dropped my head into my hands. My heart was torn to shreds and tiny pieces seemed to float in a mock dance to the music. Broken dreams were in the air the first moment of the New Year. He would have to go. When I looked up, however, he was gone, and so was MargueriteA cloud of smoke swirled at the spot they had occupied thirty seconds ago. I ran up the stairs, tearing off my mask and drawing the stage sword I had borrowed. It was blunt, but so much the better. I fully intended to drive it through that Ghost, solid or not.

I reached the balcony and looked around. There was no arrow pointing me in the right direction. Only a candle bracket in the wall, ironically in the shape of a cupid, and a painting of Venus and Adonis. And the railing. I sheathed my sword and knelt to examine the floor.

Suddenly three hands had me by the shoulders. "What do you think you're doing, little brother?" Jacques oiled in my ear.

"I am going to kill the Ghost," I hissed through clenched teeth.

"Are you now? Have you got a reason for it, other than the general?"

I looked at him. "You mean you can't _guess_?"

"I think I can, actually." I raised an eyebrow. It drives Jacques mad, because he can't do it. "You are jealous because he has Mme. Giry."

"Precisely." I tried to shake him and Charles off **4**, but they are stronger than I am when they work together. They dragged me to my room, locked it, and barricaded the door.

"Don't rush in blindly," Jacques admonished through the fortress.

So I paced. Up, back, up, back. I brandished my real, sharp sword sometimes, imagining the things I would do to the Ghost when I got out of this room. Wait. I paused in my pacing. He sometimes left notes in here. That meant he could get in here. That meant there was a trapdoor, and I could find him. I stuck the sword back home and got down on the floor to look. He wouldn't use a window. Not his style, I thought. For fifteen minutes, I crawled about on the floor, hunting for the Ghost's door. It was under the bed, and rather obvious, really. There was a track through the dust that ended at and oddly worn knothole. I put my finger in the hole and a trapdoor fell open. There was a clatter and a ladder-shaped patch of darkness unfolded. The air came out.

The air stank. It stank of stagnant water, old stone, mold, rust, wax, passion, and darkness. The air seemed to be humming, almost. The hum started in my chest and radiated out, making me feel like I had had one drink more than I should have. The dark was not dark, as such, but black. Velvety black that seemed to absorb light. A torch blinked doggedly in the blackness. I took a quick, deep breath and plunged in.

The torch was at the top of a staircase. At the bottom of that staircase was another torch, which showed you the top of the next. There were five flights, and the last ended in a lake. There was a lake, wasn't there? Yes, I had known that. Tied to the bottom step was a small boat, which I pushed off. Much later, I came to the Island.

When you arrive at the Island, you see a five-sided room. Two of the sides are open to the lake, while the other three have walls. In each wall is a wooden door with a musical symbol carved on it—on the left is a treble clef, on the right a bass clef, in the center two eighth notes. In the room open to the lake there is a desk, a piano, and an odd organ-like thing. I assume the Ghost invented the organ-thing, but I don't know. Everything in the room is covered with papers from operas, and on the desk is a music box shaped like a monkey playing the cymbals perched on an organ. It had begun playing for no apparent reason when I set foot on the Island.

I went through the door with the eighth notes on it.

Inside there was a bed. It had red curtains, and these were shut. The floor was covered with music. I drew my sword and approached the bed. I parted the curtains, and there they were. I felt, as though I was somewhere outside, my face contort into something terrible. They would _both _have to go. Unless….

♫

_Erik _

The applause echoed in my ears as I slept. It had overwhelmed me, and it had frozen me like bright light freezes a nocturnal animal. It was _ours_. It was for me. And now I had Meg. Everything was good. I was in that realm between asleep and awake where one is vaguely aware of the outside world and has the oddest dreams. This stage is usually where I have Inspirations.

A tune wrapped itself around my thoughts. But I couldn't get up now, I'd wake Meg.

Suddenly a hand clamped around my neck and hurled me against the wall. Meg screamed. I couldn't because something cold and unpleasantly hard was pressed against my chin. I opened my eyes, willing myself to be calm. This was a situation that called for the Phantom of the Opera in his entire splendor.

I saw Michel Varens. He held a sword. Madness swirled in his eyes.

"So you're going to kill the Phantom of the Opera, Michel?" a "demon" said in his ear.

The madness swirled faster as I stared him down. "Don't try to trick me with false voices, Ghost," he spat. "I _am_ going to kill you. And she is going to watch." His other hand replaced his sword and he stabbed Meg. She and I screamed. Meg collapsed on the bed.

Michel turned back to me. Now he was not insane, but cold and serious as a Norwegian winter. "She'll live if I can get her to a doctor soon," he hissed. "If she'll come with me."

"Never!" Meg screamed.

An expression of pain slid across Michel's face and fell off the other side. "Then die, both of you." He stepped back to contemplate my demise. After a moment, he pointed his sword at my leg, but I slid down the wall as he struck and took it in the chest. There was no escaping it. There were no secret ways in or out of my bedroom. The Phantom was defeated at last. As Meg snatched the sword and killed herself with it, the music box plinked to a stop.

_Masquerade..._

_ Paper...faces...on...pa...rade..._

_Mas... quer..._

_ ade._

**A/N: My apologies espescially to my beloved Sannikex, who inserted many of the gimmicks and sanded off the scratches. O Beta dear, Erik could not have a dashing last line. Yes, this is opera and he is the phantom of it, but do _real_ people go out with panache? Erik is a _human_ at the end. The monkey speaks for him. If Erik said something, I would cry myself insane. **

**Stick with me for one more chapter. C'mon, you can make it if I can. I've gone through this three times.**


	15. Epilogue: Ring around the Rosie

**A quick cool down. Thank you, you've been a wonderful audience. Thank you, Sannikex, for putting up with all the horrid, empty writing I made you read. **

**Epilogue: Ring around the Rosie**

♫

_Adelita Rapone_

Eleven years have passed since my father died. I live near Verona in Italy with Giuseppe's family. They have grown wealthy enough by breeding racehorses and cattle. It is a beautiful place with a beautiful language; a language meant for the opera I no longer associate with. It is not the same without Papa. I have a son, Erik, and a daughter, Rose. After Rose was born, I was declared quite recovered from my disease. I wish father could have been there that day—that one most of all. I often write to Caroline. She lives just outside Paris, where she teaches singing.

January of this year 1905, I was visiting her. One day the newspaper informed us that Christine Daaé had died. That brought us little grief, as neither of us knew her except through hearsay. I knew that I would have to do something for Papa. I knew what; I knew where his garden was. Also in the paper was the advertisement for the auction of the contents of the Opera Populaire on February first.

On February first, I went to the alley that led to my father's rose garden. I hadn't been here in twelve years. The roses were still there. They had grown wild and unhealthy in his absence, though I had never known him to tend to them. I felt his absence. The air was still, silent, and dead. I cut one and left hastily. The silence was oppressive. I went to the Opera Populaire, but left in tears before the auction. The silence was even more oppressive in there. It gave me a headache. The Opera had needed the Music of the Night. I had never realized how much I had needed it.

I went slowly to the Rue Scribe graveyard. My father was there, near the Daaé mausoleum, next to Meg. Christine was at the foot of the mausoleum steps. I went to her stone and put the rose down. I had tied her ring, which I had worn since Papa gave it to me, to the rose with a black ribbon.

"I never met you, Christine. I'm sorry. He did think of you. All the time, he thought of you." I stared at the little portrait carved on the stone, trying to imagine it real and sixteen. I sighed and left, running a hand over my father's stone as I passed it.

♫

_Raoul, Vincomte de Chagny_

I rode in the carriage as it bounced up and down, the music box plinking cheerfully in my lap. I found myself wondering yet again what had become of that Phantom. He must have died, or they wouldn't have been able to bring up the music box. The Opera Populaire had seemed very dead. Yet, it didn't seem like him to die, and there had been whispers of him when I listened hard enough.

The carriage stopped, and I got out. I walked slowly to the Daaé mausoleum. Christine was right in front of it. There was a little patch of red against the off-white of gravestone and the white of snow. It was a rose. Christine's ring—_my ­_ring, that the Phantom had stolen—was tied to the rose with a black ribbon. I didn't touch it; just put the music box next to it.

On my way out, I noticed something. A gravestone nearby said:

_Erik_

_1860-1894_

_PTO_

A mask of yellowed ivory hung on it.

I looked back at the rose, then back at the gravestone. Who, then, had put the rose there?

I shrugged. Let the Phantom keep his secrets. I had taken enough.

_FINIR_

♫

**Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.**


End file.
